


Iris Through the Looking Glass

by RetroactiveCon



Series: Pieces of a Broken Mirror [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, F/M, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22680385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RetroactiveCon/pseuds/RetroactiveCon
Summary: Iris watches through the mirror as the false version of her lures Barry into their bedroom. She plays coy exactly the way Iris would (and doesn’t that just chill her, how well the mirror-projection can mimic her), slides her shirt off one shoulder and bares just enough skin to drive Barry wild. “Come on,” she purrs. “It’s Valentine’s Day, after all.”
Relationships: Barry Allen/Iris West, Barry Allen/Mirror Iris West
Series: Pieces of a Broken Mirror [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726333
Comments: 17
Kudos: 63





	Iris Through the Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Episode tag for 6.11, because I couldn't stop wondering what Iris felt while she was watching through the mirror. Warnings for dubcon due to identity issues (Barry thinks he's having sex with his wife, but it's mirror!Iris) and victim-blaming (Iris thinks Barry should know he's having sex with a false version of her, although a lot of it is frustration at being trapped and having to watch).

Iris watches through the mirror as the false mirror-version of her lures Barry into their bedroom. She plays coy exactly the way Iris would (and doesn’t that just chill her, how well the mirror-projection can mimic her), slides her shirt off one shoulder and bares just enough skin to drive Barry wild. “Come on,” she purrs. “It’s Valentine’s Day, after all.”

Iris screams and pounds both fists against the glass. It won’t work—she’s tried to break out since the mirror-world sucked her in—but this is too much. How dare that mirror-projection take what’s hers, take _her Barry_ and use him like this…

“I…” Barry balks. He has suspicions, Iris knows he does, but he doubts himself for having them. She screams at him, knowing he won’t hear her, that’s he’s right, that he should trust himself, that he mustn’t trust the mirror-her. “I don’t…it’s been a long day, Iris, you deserve to rest…”

The false Iris shakes her head, a little smile on her lips (the same smile Iris uses to take charge, the smile that means she knows how much Barry wants her to take charge). “It _has_ been a long day,” she agrees. “And you spent so much time worried that you’d lose me. Don’t you want to know that you didn’t?” She rubs her palm over Barry’s chest. 

His conviction wavers. Iris can hear the thoughts spinning in his pretty head— _what if he’s overreacting to some pancakes and a passing knowledge of Italian, what if this is Iris and he’s denying her, what kind of terrible husband denies his wife Valentine’s Day sex…_

“That isn’t me!” she screams again. “You know it, Barry, you know it!” 

The false Iris pulls Barry into a kiss and Iris is sickened anew. Mirror-Iris kisses exactly like she does—hands cradling Barry’s head, fingernails scratching at his scalp the way he adores. How long were she and Barry being watched? 

“Please,” the false Iris murmurs against his lips. “Just let me have this.” 

It’s worse because Iris can taste the words on her tongue, can imagine herself saying them in the same way. It’s worse because she _has_ said them—before Savitar, before DeVoe, before Crisis, before every time they thought they would lose each other. How dare the mirror-projection twist her words this way?

Barry melts, because of course he does. Mirror-Iris knows just what to say to strip away his uncertainties, to make him blame himself for his doubts. (And isn’t it sick, Iris thinks, that even knowing how he must hate himself for doubting, she despises him in her heart of hearts for not doubting enough.) “Okay.”

Iris could let them go. She could let the door swing shut and hunker miserably in this mirror, envisioning a thousand scenarios in which mirror-Iris uses her face to take advantage of Barry. But not knowing has always been worse than knowing the truth, even if it sickens her. Reluctantly, she follows them, steps up to the bedroom mirror and forces herself to watch as the false Iris coaxes Barry out of his clothes. 

“Face the mirror,” the false Iris orders. No. No, she can’t possibly be that cruel—but she glances ever-so-briefly at the mirror, just long enough to meet Iris’s eyes, and Iris knows that yes, she can. “I want to watch you fall apart.” 

The false Iris gets out the strap-on, buckles it around her hips, and slips one end of the double-ended toy into herself. The other end of the toy she lubes generously and sheathes to the hilt in Barry’s ass. Iris has a perfect, second-by-second view of the way the first pale echoes of pain fade from Barry’s expression, replaced by beautiful, submissive pleasure. 

“No!” She bangs both hands futilely against the glass. “That’s _ours!_ Don’t you dare spoil that for us!” 

(Once again, more strongly this time, she feels a pulse of loathing toward Barry. How could he let this happen? How could he not recognize the mirror-projection as an impostor? She knew instantly when Bloodwork took control of him, knew every tell no matter how small. How much less does he love her, that he can’t do the same?) 

“Tell me how that feels,” the false Iris purrs. She infuses it with the same tenderness, the same touch of command, Iris herself would use. 

“Oh God.” Barry arches his back, presenting himself for the impostor's inspection. “So—so good, Iris, so fucking good…” 

She gives a little twist of her hips that Iris knows from experience feels breathtakingly good for both of them. Barry keens and pushes his hips back into her thrusts. “You want more, don’t you?” 

“Yes, yes please, oh _fuck…”_

The false Iris slips her hand around and jerks him off in time to her thrusts. “Tell me how much you love this.”

“I love it,” Barry babbles, the words punched out of him in time to false Iris’s thrusts. “I love it when you fuck me, Iris, I love being yours.”

“Look at yourself,” the false Iris coos. Obediently, Barry lifts his head and looks at the mirror—directly at Iris. She pounds her fists against the glass. This is just cruel. “Whose are you?” 

“Yours,” Barry says without hesitation. “Yours, yours, oh God…”

Iris has to watch him spill on the sheets with the false Iris's hand around his cock. (He doesn’t know, she tells herself, but it doesn’t make the scene any less foul.) The false Iris barely gives him time to take a breath before pulling out of him, discarding the toy, and knocking him on his back. 

“I was going to ride your dick.” She strokes him once, too harshly given how sensitive he is. Barry squirms, feet scrabbling against the mattress. “But I don’t think you could last to see me off, even now, could you?” 

“I’ll be good,” Barry begs. Iris wants to scream that _no, he won’t, how can he when he can’t even tell the real her from a fake?_ “I’ll be so good, Iris, please…”

She settles comfortably over his face. “You can put that tongue to better use than begging,” she teases gently. “I know you can.” 

Barry eats her out as though he can’t get enough. Iris is forced to watch as the false Iris comes all over his pretty face, makes a mess of him, and kisses her taste off his lips. 

“Good?” The false Iris curls up beside him in bed. Barry pulls her into his arms the way he’s always held Iris. Even though she knows there’s no point, Iris bangs her hands against the glass one more time. This impostor doesn’t get to ruin this for them. Their bed, their cuddle time, should be a haven from their hectic life. If even that is no longer safe, Iris doesn’t know how either of them will cope. 

“Good,” Barry agrees. He nuzzles his face into the false Iris’s hair. “Very life-affirming.” 

The false Iris makes a happy sound and kisses him again. “I love you.”

The readiness with which Barry says, “I love you too,” burns in Iris’s gut, corrosive like acid. Even knowing how he'll hate himself once he finds out about the false Iris, some petty, caged, helpless part of her wants to blame him. He should have known. As she curls up against the surface of the mirror, disgusted and defeated, she can’t help thinking he should have known.


End file.
